


Only Slightly Inconvenient

by angeoltaire



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, First Kiss, M/M, Stripper!Combeferre
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2014-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-15 14:52:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2233053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angeoltaire/pseuds/angeoltaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To put it frankly, straight-forwardly, with no pretences or beating around the bush, Combeferre was a stripper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only Slightly Inconvenient

To put it frankly, straight-forwardly, with no pretences or beating around the bush, Combeferre was a stripper.

And no, he wasn't sleazy, and he wasn't a whore; stripping paid well, and if all it took to earn a bit of extra cash was to take his shirt of and dance around a stage, then he'd damn well do it. He wasn't ashamed, and he _enjoyed_ his job. He was damn _good_ at his job.

There was a lot to be said for Combeferre's physique. He'd never worked out much, but had still somehow managed to achieve smooth muscle on his arms, his chest, his shoulders, and, what he was most famous in the bar for, his arse and his thighs. He'd been told he was a good dancer, too; he knew just how to move his hips at the right angles and to the right beats to make men, women and non-binary folk alike swoon. He was able to please anybody, and there was indeed something very satisfying about that. Combeferre absolutely flat-out refused to feel in any way guilty or embarrassed or contrite.

But that didn't mean that his friends knew about his job. He'd tried to keep it a secret, purely for the fact that Enjolras would most likely have a heart attack if he knew his best friend was being paid for getting almost-naked. Not to mention the relentless teasing that he'd receive – which, granted, he wouldn't mind, but if he could avoid such things then he would.

So three nights a week, Combeferre would make up some excuse to Enjolras about how he needed extra study time out of their shared apartment, and instead go to work for five hours at a local relatively high-class bar. At the end of the night he'd come home just over three hundred euros better off, and Enjolras knew none the wiser.

This arrangement had been working well for Combeferre for almost a year when his biggest nightmare strolled through the doors of the bar, approximately one hour and thirty-two minutes into his five hour shift. He was stood on a platform with his shirt half over his head when the door closed only a few mere metres away, and familiar voices could be heard over the heavy dance beats.

“Please, remind me _why_ we're here.” There was no way that Combeferre could mistake that tone weighed heavily with impatience.

“Because you need a night out.” _Damn it. This was not happening. Nuh uh._ He _was not here._

“Courf, come on.” _Fuck._ “The Musain isn't good enough anymore? You have to bring me to watch men and women remove their clothing and dance, while you get drunk and drool over them?”

“That's exactly what I have to do. Go grab a booth, I'll go get drinks.”

“I'm not drink-”

“Enjolras, shut up and sit down.” Another voice, again familiar, though the comfort of their presence eased Combeferre's rapidly increasing heartbeat a little.

“Thanks, Jehan. Enjolras, be a good boy and sit with Jehan.”

So Enjolras was here. That he could deal with. He'd had to have told Enjolras eventually, right? Jehan, as well – Jehan was kind and soft and understanding, and he'd never cause any trouble.

But damn it, Courfeyrac. _Why Courfeyrac?_ Anyone _but_ the man that Combeferre had maybe been slightly in love with for years.

And now said love of his life was going to see him dance and remove most of his clothing for money. It wasn't that he was worried about Courfeyrac's reaction, because he honestly was _not_ at all embarrassed of his job. No, it was rather that he was embarrassed of...himself? Of Courfeyrac, his best friend since childhood, _seeing him shirtless and probably trouser-less and dancing atop a table?_

“Ahem.” Combeferre looked down to see a young women sat at his feet, looking up at him with mild concern. He realised he'd been stood with his elbows up and his shirt half off his head for a good couple of minutes since his friends had made their surprise appearance. “Are you okay?”

He threw a charming, reassuring smile down at the woman, and immediately he noticed her pupils dilate slightly. “I'm fine, thank you. Sorry,” he murmured, realising too late that his voice was deep and slightly rough and far too suggestive than he'd have liked – especially with his circumstances. Shaking his head in a weak attempt to snap himself out of it, he practically tore his shirt off over his head and tossed it aside. The women at his feet cheered as his hips began to sway easily to the music blasting through the speakers.

He quickly became lost in his job, his brain slowly becoming more focused on the audience throwing money at him than the man he was in love with sitting only a handful of metres away from him. But the thought was still there, nagging and making his brain ache, and every couple of minutes he found his eyes darting to check on his friends. Most times, thankfully, he found Courfeyrac too submerged in teasing Enjolras to pay attention to _any_ of the dancers, let alone him.

And then he looked up as he was rocking his hips back and forth, and his eyes locked into contact with the dark, wide eyes that he'd been trying to avoid all evening.

The other man's jaw dropped – literally. He'd been in the middle of a sentence, it appeared, but at seeing his best friend almost naked and flaunting his body on a podium, he'd choked on his words and now his mouth was stuck in a permanent “O” shape.

Combeferre himself had frozen on the spot, earning yet again more concerned and annoyed tuts and remarks from his audience. If he'd have been thinking properly, he might've reached down for his shirt and ran as far away from the bar as possible – sod his job, sod the money, he had dignity and a friendship to protect.

But he wasn't thinking properly; instead he denied himself any logic and simply _smiled._ The smile was desperate, apologetic, embarrassed, but it was a smile nonetheless.

As if it was even possible, Courfeyrac's jaw dropped open a little further.

Then something entirely unexpected happened – Courfeyrac, eyes still locked on a horrified Combeferre, stood up. And, with his hands in his pockets, he strolled towards Combeferre's podium, excusing his way through the decreasing crowd of women until he was right at Combeferre's feet.

“I did _not_ expect to see you here,” he articulated, gazing up at the other man and never once breaking eye contact.

“Courf, I can explain. I-” Combeferre tried, but Courfeyrac only held his hand up to stop him – and damn it, the man actually _grinned_.

“But it was certainly a pleasant surprise.”

Courfeyrac was beaming now, and Combeferre could feel the blush growing down his neck and across his chest.

“Oh, please, don't stop on my account,” Courfeyrac added, taking a few steps back until he was shoulder-to-shoulder with two women in Combeferre's audience.

Combeferre knew he had no choice but to start up a routine, because he really couldn't afford to lose this job.

He took a few seconds to draw in a deep breath, let it out, and catch on to the rhythm of the music. He started bobbing up and down on the balls of his feet, swaying from left to right and reaching for the button of his jeans. Soon his jeans were around his ankles, where he kicked them off the podium; Courfeyrac snatched them up with a wink.

Through the noise and the haze and the strobe lighting, it gradually became easier to forget that Courfeyrac was there. Combeferre kept the routine simple, something that didn't require much effort or exploitation on his part yet still never failed to please. Every now and then he'd risk a glance at his audience – the women were certainly enjoying it, and...so was Courfeyrac. Combeferre really did not know how to feel about that.

Time passed quickly when Combeferre was dancing, and before he knew it, he was halfway through his shift and his manager over at the bar was giving him a thumbs up to say, “Hey, kid, you can go on break for a bit.” Combeferre had never been more relieved.

He finished his performance with an appropriate pose and a small, modest bow, before jumping down from his podium, taking his jeans from Courfeyrac's hands and rushing towards the nearest exit.

Courfeyrac found him only moments later, shirtless and barefooted, leaning against the wall and staring absently down the darkened street.

“Courfeyrac-”

There wasn't time for any explanation, because soon Courfeyrac had his hands bracketed on the wall either side of Combeferre's head, and their lips met somewhere in the middle.

The kiss was sweaty and sloppy and rushed, all tongues and teeth clashing to a rhythm faster than their racing heartbeats, but if you asked either of them, it was perfect.

“You're a stripper,” Courfeyrac murmured, running the pad of his right index finger along Combeferre's bottom lip. “Holy shit.”

Combeferre chuckled lowly. “Kind of.”

“You're good at it, too. Fuck, Combeferre, you're good at it.”

“Should I take that as a compliment?”

“Yes.”

“Right.”

“...how long, Combeferre?”

“How long what? The stripping? I-”

“No, no, not that. You returned my kiss just now.”

“Oh...”

“Yeah. How long have you...?”

“Forever.”

Courfeyrac squeaked. “Forever?”

Combeferre nodded. “Mmhmm.”

A heavy silence threw itself between them, and Combeferre couldn't tell whether the dampened thudding in his head was the music from the bar, or his pulse throbbing in his temples.

“So, uh,” Courfeyrac started, his gaze averting down to Combeferre's bare chest. “Does this job at all affect relationship prospects?”

“Only if the potential partner lets it.”

“Does that mean I can kiss you again?”

“Definitely.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I found this drabble incompleted on my laptop from a few months ago, and decided to finish it off. It ends kinda abruptly, and I'm pretty sure all of this is kinda out of character, but I do not care.  
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated! Thanks!


End file.
